


Words and Actions

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras reads of the revolution and Grantaire drinks while watching him. Until neither of them do those things any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words and Actions

**Author's Note:**

> I have no shame, and this has no plot. (And probably rather poor characterisation.)

The words are like music to his ears, and he can’t help but mouth them as he reads. He is there, watching the stones at Notre Dame being lifted, and he can picture the exchange of firearms at the docks. He is as much part of the revolution as he is part of humanity. Beyond the window Paris is dark in the evening light, storm clouds covering over the moon but allowing for an even brighter dawn. Everything shall be well, and there can be no failing in this. The revolution shall live, it shall thrive.

The fire of rebellion is alight in Enjolras eyes.

Grantaire laughs, hand curled tight around the cup, which Enjolras knows has something much stronger than water in it.

He frowns, but Grantaire only laughs again.

“Come, Enjolras, really? This isn’t your fight. They won, remember? Hundreds of years ago, during the actual revolution. For the love of everything you hold dear put the kindle away and come sit down.”

Enjolras sighs, the flames not quite leaving his eyes, and flicks the off switch on his kindle, screen fading to black. The case when he flips it over is red leather, a gift from Grantaire and soft to the touch, much like Grantaire.

“Well, put that glass down and we’ll make a night of it then, we’ll celebrate this new found freedom we have.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but puts his drink down, leaning over the side of the sofa to place it on the floor, his t-shirt rides up over the pale flush of his stomach. Enjolras wets his lips.

“Is your history so poor Enjolras? France has been free for years.”

Grantaire is teasing, but he softens as Enjolras moves to join him on the sofa. Enjolras kicks his already loose converse under the chair as he kneels on the cushions, pressing his weight onto the armrest of it, ensnaring Grantaire between his arms and the sofa. He is being completely playful, a rarity, and the joy of it can only be compared to Grantaire’s smile.

“So we have. Well then, we a lot of celebrating to catch up on.”

Grantaire leans forward and captures Enjolras’ lips in a kiss.

There is nothing in this world like the feeling of Grantaire’s lips against his, and sometimes when he is feeling particularly romantic Enjolras wonders how he could have seen the beauty in the world for the twenty one years before he’d known Grantaire’s lips against his. But that isn’t enough to satisfying Enjolras, not tonight when he has the blood of the revolutionaries running through his veins.

He is safe, he is loved, he is venerated and he has Grantaire pressed warm beneath him. 

Not that Grantaire is being passive in this, his hands have reached up to thread through Enjolras golden curls and the tightness of his grip elicits a moan, which Grantaire swallows whole.

Sometimes Enjolras worries that given the opportunity, he and Grantaire would subsume into each other. But then Grantaire bites at his lip and sighs as though he is partaking in the finest vintage and Enjolras is content that they could survive anything.

From how he has Grantaire caged against the arm of the sofa it means that Enjolras cannot reach out and touch. He can only press his face into the crook of Grantaire’s neck and breathe him in. He tastes the sweat against Grantaire’s skin as he feels firm fingers sink into his neck and pull him in deeper.

Grantaire, who is so rarely silent, is mumbling frantic and desperate words against Enjolras’ hairline, and he can barely make out the words, distracted by the press of Grantaire’s hips against his own.

They are rutting like horny teenagers, making out on the sofa, with Enjolras sucking bruises into Grantaire’s neck and he cannot bring himself to regret this.

Grantaire’s hands drop from Enjolras’ hair and Enjolras can feel them creep lightly down his back, tickling the notches of his spine. The feel of Grantaire’s hands on him has always been one which inspired fervour in Enjolras, even before their relationship turned into what it was today. While before it had been Grantaire bodily pushing roughly against him, their shoulders knocking together and Enjolras’ angry response hurled after him. But now, with Grantaire’s fingers pressing up the inside of his shirt Enjolras’ response is anything but angry.

Enjolras groans and Grantaire smiles and presses further into Enjolras’ skin.

If Enjolras had any self-restraint then he would pull back from Grantaire’s determined hands and questing lips. He would pull back and stand, to take this to its proper resolution. But he has Grantaire, desperate and beautiful, hair wild and eyes blazing, holding himself flush against him, and Enjolras is only a man.

He captures his groan of release between his teeth and the skin of Grantaire’s neck and the sharp hiss of ascent from Grantaire tells him that the fallible human condition is not his alone.

Just as Grantaire sinks into the sofa, exhausted, Enjolras’ arms having held his weight through their encounter begin to buckle, and he falls backwards onto his heels.

Grantaire laughs, eyes crinkling and he crooks his arm over the sofa and takes up his abandoned drink.

Enjolras frowns.

Enjolras is uncomfortable in his stance, still half crouched on the black leather sofa cushions, and he watches Grantaire raise the cup.

“Vive la France.”

And Grantaire is smiling, raising his glass in salute to French freedom and Enjolras takes the drink when it is offered to him and repeats the gesture. 

Grantaire had only sipped at its content, which turns out to be whiskey, before handing it over but Enjolras downs the remainder of the glass. It is sharp and bitter, but Enjolras smiles as he replaces the cup to the floor.

The fire in his throat matches the flames that remain in his eyes.

Grantaire stands first, and Enjolras can hear the click of his spine as he stretches. He knows what Grantaire’s spine tastes like and when Grantaire offers Enjolras his hand- playing at chivalry- Enjolras presses his lips to the knuckles.

“Oh, my hero.”

Grantaire only rolls his eyes, and tugs Enjolras to his feet. 

He knows that his hair is ruffled by Grantaire’s demanding fingers and that his clothing is a state, and heaven forbid should anyone see them that what they were doing would be evident. But it is late, and although their friends have little sense of either time or propriety they are unlikely to find themselves playing host to anyone. 

It has started to rain outside their apartment, and he has not yet dropped Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire’s fingers do not lessen their grip either.

“Come on, it’s late. We should get cleaned up.”

Grantaire sighs, but drops Enjolras hand and raises his own to his mouth to capture a yawn. He nods.

Stepping apart from each other begins a flurry of activity, with elbows colliding over the bathroom sink and clothes being hastily shoved into hampers, ready for the night to descend. 

They are almost settled into slumber, accompanied by light kisses and touching fingers, when Enjolras unfurls himself from their sheets and hushes at Grantaire to stay asleep. 

The flat is dark, and Enjolras has no need to flick the light switch to find what he needs. Just as Enjolras is reaching toward the table, to pick up his discarded kindle he feels arms wrapped around his chest, and a soft pair of lips pressed to the nape of his neck.

“Come back to bed.”

Grantaire’s voice is as rich as it had been earlier in the evening, but it has a hint of softness to it which Enjolras is hearing more and more. It is also sleep addled and being whispered into his skin.

He motions towards his kindle, he had forgotten to bookmark the page that Grantaire had interrupted him in reading, but Grantaire only leans in closer to Enjolras and breaths against his neck.

“History can wait.”

And Enjolras finds that it can.

**Author's Note:**

> (Because shameless modern AU.)


End file.
